


Little Luxuries

by tinsnip



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fluff, Happy, M/M, Post-Canon Cardassia, chatty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 23:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinsnip/pseuds/tinsnip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The issue arises when he steps out of the shower and looks at himself in the mirror. Well, to be accurate, it doesn’t arise: it stands out in all directions from his head."</p><p>Cardassia is <em>hot,</em> and Julian Bashir is doing his best to deal with the summer - but honestly, can he really be expected to function looking like <em>this?</em> As always, Garak has a suggestion.</p><p>Silly and fluffy and light and really very chatty. Written for the pure pleasure of dialogue. I think I have, perhaps, read too much <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/airandangels/pseuds/airandangels">airandangels</a> (is there such a thing?).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Luxuries

It’s hot, too hot, inescapably hot; the summer is endless, a marathon run that has no stopping point and must simply be endured. Julian drips sweat incessantly. He wears light fabrics, draped gauzily, and needs only the paint to look a true sUt’tert (or so observes his partner, drily). His sandals are more a suggestion than a solid entity, his undergarments are practically non-existent, and he’s trimmed his body hair to near-nothing because he _simply cannot stand it anymore._

All of that he can bear. All of it he can handle. At least the nights are cooler, and there’s water now, one hour at dawn, one hour at dusk, and in those hours as much as he likes. Nothing else works, climate control is a laughable idea, but at least there’s water, and oh, it’s cold, and he pours it over himself in the shower stall, drenches himself and lets it drip down his body. He wakes up craving it; he spends his days dreaming of it. He can’t believe that he once thought a cold shower was something to be endured. It’s lascivious now, passionately pleasurable in its own right, and he gasps and shivers under the water’s rush, grinning from ear to ear.

No, he can handle the Cardassian summer, he can manage it. Most of it. Practically all. There’s just one thing that’s beginning to niggle.

The issue arises when he steps out of the shower and looks at himself in the mirror. Well, to be accurate, it doesn’t arise: it stands out in all directions from his head.

In Cardassia’s soup-like air, the humidity so thick it’s almost mist, his hair has begun to curl fiercely. It’s twisted and tight and cannot be tamed; brushing it makes it worse, products do nothing, it’s always thick with sweat, and it has become his nemesis. He hasn’t had a decent hair cut in months, and his hair has grown and grown and grown and now he is beginning to resemble a dandelion clock. If he could puff it all away with a wish, he would, but he can’t bring himself to shave it, and trying to cut it himself would no doubt result in a general worsening of the aesthetic. So he does nothing, and hates it, and this evening he towels himself off, stares at the nimbus around his head, tries to finger-comb some sense into it, then grasps a fistful and lets out a frustrated yell.

There’s a gentle rap on the bathroom door, which then slides open slightly, just enough to admit a damnably sleek and well-coiffed dark head.

“Is everything all right?”

“No. No, it’s not. I’m hot and I look ridiculous.”

The ass doesn’t even have the common decency to demur; instead he tilts his head and looks at Julian, and his own hair falls loosely in a dark sway, infuriatingly glossy and smooth. Julian’s tried the oil he uses; it produced a matted, horrible-smelling mess that took three tries to properly wash out. It isn’t fair.

“I have noticed that your hair has become...”

He’s irritated. _“Yes?”_

Grey eyeridges twitch. “I was only going to say that I’ve noticed it’s a trifle... willful.”

“Have you, now.”

“Mmm. I was beginning to wonder if this was the... desired effect?”

“Yes, Garak, yes,” and he turns back to the mirror, gestures at himself, “I absolutely want to look exactly as if I’ve been electrocuted, it’s _all_ the rage on Earth, I _love_ it.”

Garak’s face is prim. “You could simply say that you don’t care for it either.”

“ _Either?_ Oh, _really?_ This is how you nicely tell me that you think my hair looks absurd? How _very_ kind—”

“Doctor,” and Garak slides the door open the rest of the way and steps into the tiny bathroom, elegant as always, even in this heat, _damn the man,_ “when you are quite finished with your histrionics, I may be able to offer you a solution.”

His hands are in his hair, twisting; he sighs, irritated and tired. “Please. Anything.”

“Have you considered having it cut?”

A pause, a breath; he slides Garak a look out of irritated end-of-the-day eyes. “What a novel idea. I shall have to move on that at once. God, Garak, that’s revolutionary; really, what would I do without you?”

“You’d talk to yourself. Are you planning on being this unpleasant all evening?”

He presses his lips together, puffs a breath through his nose. “Sorry. Long day. Hot.”

“For all of us, Doctor; now, I do think a haircut would improve your mood tremendously.”

He tries to keep a lid on his irascibility, but it threatens to boil over. “Shall I just pop off to the salon, then? Open twenty-six hours a day for the convenience of the restoration teams? Where the _hell_ am I supposed to find a barber in _this?”_

His gesture takes in Cardassia City, sparse lights twinkling into visibility as dusk falls outside; buildings slump, there’s rubble in the streets. The city lives, but she limps, and there are no luxuries now, and Julian is amazed at how many of the things he took for granted turned out to be luxuries, breathable non-soup-like air and the pleasures of body hair among them.

“Hmm.” Garak steps closer, lifts one hand to lightly brush the edge of the quivering cloud around Julian’s skull. “You could start by looking under your nose.”

A breath, a blink. “Oh, you’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You were a barber too.”

“Once.”

“When?”

“Some time ago.”

“Where?”

“At an outpost on the edge of the Union; really, my dear, are these details important?”

“I... No, I suppose not. Really, you can cut hair?”

A nod, and Garak’s eyes have already taken on that slightly distant look he only sees when Garak’s been given a problem to solve. Somewhere in that strange, semi-reptilian brain, wheels have begun to turn.

Wait, hold on— “Garak, can you cut _Human_ hair?”

“Mmm? Why would I not be able to do so?”

“Cardassian hair is more like feathers – our hair isn’t the same – and mine curls, you see, and—”

“Are you worried I’ll do a poor job, Doctor?” There’s slight affront in his tone, but then there almost always is; Julian can put that aside and focus on the fact that, damn it, he’s right. Garak sees it in his face, smiles slightly.

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’m sure I can groom fur just as well as I can proper hair.”

“It’s not _fur.”_ A long-standing argument for the sheer pleasure of hackles raised; his objection is more rote than anything else, and Garak’s smile widens a little.

“Let me see what I can do. I offer you this: do you really think I can make it any worse?”

Well, there is that.

A few minutes later, Garak has laid his hands on a pair of rather nice scissors – sacrificed, with a small amount of hand-wringing, from his sewing kit – and a comb, and has laid down a plastic sheet in the centre of their small living area to catch any stray strands. Julian, now in shorts, is perched on one of their horrible little chairs in the sheet’s centre, facing out towards the balcony doors, which are open. The view is nice; the air is still too hot, but at least it’s moving.

“All of Cardassia City is going to be able to see me getting my hair cut.”

“You over-estimate your own importance, my dear; now, please hold still...”

The comb is tugged through his hair, which has already begun to mat.

“Hmm. I begin to see your difficulty.”

“It’s madness. I despair of it, Garak.”

“I promise, my dear, I will do my best to alleviate your sad state. Let me just...”

Cool water is dripped over his head and combed through; his hair is parted, a section is pulled up, and he hears the scissors, their metallic _snip-snip_ echoing slightly in their bare-walled apartment.

“I wish you’d let me have a mirror.”

“You’d only offer suggestions. I don’t need them.”

“It would make me feel useful.”

“You’ve been useful all day. Sit still and be quiet, please...”

Garak moves around him, humming quietly to himself under his breath, and his hands move swiftly, smoothly. The scissors are sharp and quick; he barely feels the tug as they slice through the strands.

“Is it as bad as it looks?”

“Simply over-grown, my dear; I am rather expert at pruning.”

“That’s plants. We’re talking plants, now.”

“Mmm, I confess that dealing with your rather unique situation does have some similarities to shaping a topiary...”

“Hey—”

“Hush...”

At one point, Garak places a hand on his chin to angle him just so. His skin is warm and dry. The man doesn’t sweat, as befits an exotherm. It’s almost funny; the few times Julian had touched him back on DS9, Garak’s skin had been cold, and he’d assumed that was just standard for a Cardassian. Here, though, on Cardassia Prime, with ambient temperatures climbing higher every day, Garak’s skin has started to feel warmer right along with the weather. It’s almost a shame: he’d really rather have a nice cool bed partner right now, someone to shed excess heat on. Turns out he’ll only ever have that in winter. Oh, well, Cardassian winters are warm too—

A tuft of hair falls through his peripheral vision and distracts him. It’s a rather large tuft. “Garak?”

Humming is his only answer, and another tuft drifts down.

“Garak, how much are you taking off?”

“Enough, my dear, enough...” The response is half-sung; Garak is enjoying himself.

“Am I going to have any hair left at all?”

“Mmm.” A considering pause. “Yes, I think so.”

“You _think_ so?”

“Do you trust me or not, Doctor?”

 _“Not,_ Garak.”

 _“Good,”_ and there’s a smile in his voice, “but I assure you that in this matter I have both of our best interests at heart.”

“Is that so.”

“Indeed; this serves me just as much as it does you.”

“How so?” A finger presses on his chin, and he moves as it dictates, tilting, exposing an ear; he hears snipping just above it.

“Well, I confess that sleeping next to you has, of late, become rather more difficult.”

This is the first he’s heard of it; involuntarily he draws his chin back in surprise, and hears a hiss of displeasure. A firm, strong hand repositions his head. “Don’t move.”

“Sorry. What do you mean, ‘difficult?’”

“Mmm...” More snipping, and the comb is briefly employed. “It’s just that... well, you do have a predilection for... mmm, shall we say, cuddling up—” A pause to assess, and Julian feels he must defend himself.

 _“You_ are the one who’s always after my body heat, Garak; it’s not the other way around.”

“Details, my dear; don’t be so pedantic – now, let’s just—” Snip, snip. “—yes, that’s better... Mmm, it’s just that when we are close...”

A drawn-out pause, now, as Garak purses his lips in thought. Julian rolls his eyes. “Yes?”

“Well, you do like to spoon in against me—”

It’s not even worth interrupting.

“—and I confess that _this,_ well...” A tug, a snip. “It tickles.”

He grins. “Does it?”

“Yes.” Garak makes a moue of mild displeasure, his eyes on Julian’s hair. “Do you know, I’ve actually made a short list of ways I could remedy the situation.”

“Dear me.”

“Mmm. Fortunately, you leapt at my very first idea.”

“Top of the list?”

“Indeed.” Snip, snip.

“What was further down?”

“Really, Doctor, _must_ you always choose such unpleasant topics of conversation? Simply be grateful that you’ll never have to know; now,” as Julian sputters, “I do believe we are just... about... done, yes, that will do.” Garak steps back, expression pleased.

His hands creep up, tentative in air. “May I...?”

“It’s your head, my dear.”

He reaches, touches—

“Oh, it’s all soft!”

“Mmm, yes. I’ve cut out most of the damaged areas.”

“Oh, and there’s – it’s gotten _thinner!”_

Garak raises a reassuring hand. “In texture only; I promise it will feel cooler, and will appear very much the same.”

“What did you—” He looks up at Garak. “Can I see?”

Blue eyes blink, and one arm indicates the bathroom. “Certainly.”

He’s tentative as he walks to the bathroom, not quite sure as he peers into the mirror, but it can’t be any worse, right? It can’t—

_Oh—_

It’s _better._ It’s much, _much_ better, it’s short and it suits him and it’s clipped close to his skull near the ears and – he runs a hand over the nape of his neck, yes, there too, and yet at the top it’s longer but it doesn’t stand up anymore, it flows down just a bit, _how did he do that?,_ and it’s not quite Cardassian but it’s certainly not Starfleet, it’s—

Garak has followed him in; now Julian turns to him, grinning, and the part of him that isn’t busy being happy about his hair is now happy about Garak’s briefly delighted expression. “Garak, it’s _excellent!”_

A slight bow, and although Garak’s face is once again simply quietly pleased, he thinks he sees a trace of that momentary grin in his eyes. “I’m pleased I could help.”

He turns back to the mirror, smiling, almost speechless. “I – look, I’m—” Back to Garak, back to the mirror, and he’s ebullient, happy as a child with a new toy. “Look, I’m _me_ again!”

A soft laugh, and Garak tilts his head. “Were you ever not?”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s just...” It’s silly, and he laughs a little too. “I’ve gotten used to things being tough, I’m fine with the heat and the clothes, and the water is great but we certainly haven’t had it for long and I’m sure it’ll go out again soon, and the food is, mmm, well, I manage, but—”

“My dear, you are babbling.” Garak’s expression is fond, which takes the sting out of his words.

“Sorry, I am, aren’t I...” He blinks, smiling, rather taken aback by how much this has meant to him. “It’s just...  I’ve gotten rather used to being Buckle-down-Bashir—”

“Buckle... what?”

“Oh, it’s a bit of a joke thing, it’s just – in med school during study times, or in any kind of hard times, really, I always tell myself: don’t complain, just buckle down, Bashir, and get it done—”

 _“More_ talking to yourself?”

“More or less, yes, look, the point is that I’ve gotten used to the situation, yes? This situation?” He gestures at the walls, the city outside them, the world around them. “And little things like how I look really don’t seem like they should matter in this situation, they’re just stupid _luxuries,_ but then you do this and...” He runs down, shrugs, smiles. “I don’t know. I just... I feel like me again. For the first time in... a little while now. So thanks.”

Garak frowns, steps closer; one grey hand comes up, its fingers tracing along his jaw. “Who did you feel like, if not yourself?”

“I don’t know.” He leans into the touch; as night comes on, contact is more bearable, and the very slight breeze drifting from the balcony has found its way into this room, too. “Someone who didn’t need anything extra to survive. Someone who didn’t need luxuries.”

“Ah, my dear, but what is life without luxury?” Garak’s tone has changed, has warmed; there’s laughter in it. “What are we doing all of this for, if not to find pleasure in it?”

He smiles, bemused. “What, you’re not satisfied by pure self-sacrifice? Duty to the State, etcetera?”

Garak nods, smiling back. “Of course I am, Doctor. But I am also someone who finds it very important to savour every little luxury he has.” His eyes are clear and close; his gaze travels over Julian’s face.

_Oh—_

Suddenly Julian is blushing slightly, but he doesn’t look away. He laughs a little. “Even when they’re few and far between?”

“Are they?” Another tilt of that dark head, and again his hair swings down; Julian watches its movement. “I really hadn’t noticed; my life seems quite full of luxury, to me...”

He leans in, his lips soft and dry and remarkably warm, and Julian touches him gingerly, finds he can bear the warmth, the closeness; that, in fact, he’s really rather interested in more, and so he pulls his partner closer, and it’s wonderful how context is everything, isn’t it? His clothes are light, and so they come off easily; his undergarments are non-existent, and _that’s_ all to the good; his body hair is shaved to nearly-nothing, and so he feels every pleasant rumpling of the sheets, cool against his skin, once they make it to the bed—

A kiss is pressed against his neck, another by his ear; a hand runs through his hair, and a smiling, slightly sibilant voice hisses, “Much nicer this way,” and Julian finds himself laughing, sighing, happy, and really quite remarkably thankful for little luxuries.

 


End file.
